Scarlet Reflection
by Laukerie
Summary: In Mines of Moria things take a different turn. Legolas. Injury. Future Angst. Future SLASH. No further comments needed.
1. Pain

Merry Christmas all!! It was my holiday resolution to put this up by Christmas day and I did it! YAY! I have decided to give myself dead lines for these fics otherwise one just keeps on postponing and postponing and postponing. Anyway the next update is foreseen for the 5 of Jan I know It's a long time but I'm going away for a week so can't work much from the beach where I am off too. Yes THE BEACH HAHAHAH. Freeze in hell all you northeners!!! By the way let me know if ya want this updated because I'm not going to bother putting the next part up otherwise. Oh yes It's written. Oh yes It's a movie flick for FOTR (have read the books but can't check details as a friend has them now)  
  
MelodySongSinger sorry (sorry sorry sorry) I didn't write back to ya after you offered to be my BETA reader, if you are still interested please let me know.  
  
If she is mad with me and has boycotted my story. Is someone else willing to Beta for me? (No MelodySongSinger I'm not trying to replace you)  
  
Oh yes don't own LOTR and I humbly swear not to hurt the characters I have borrowed. (Too much.)  
  
SCARLET REFLECTION  
  
The darkness enveloping any soul who dared enter the Mines of Moria seemed dead in its stillness, and yet, there was movement. Fleeting arrows flying through in search of a target repetitively pierced the damp air leaded in blackness. They flashed past the eyes of nine companions like silver incrinations in a shattering glass whose surface would disintegrate leaving no trace of its existence.  
  
Similar in speed were the arrows released by the elf Legolas. A single strength against the many others thrust his way but, surely, each time embedding their deadly ends into the body of one of his unfortunate victims. His hands gracefully armed his wooden bow countless of times over and repetitively opened his grasp on the wooden weapons unleashing a fearsome, tangible power. His elven vision and hearing were finely tuned on every action and rustle occurring around him making his aim all the more deadly.  
  
It was these senses that protected him; these senses that always served him victory; these senses that he, in battle, cursed with all his might. There wasn't a lament that escaped his ears, nor was there a falling corpse that his eyes didn't register into his long term memory to resurface in his mind when the struggle was over. The voices of his fellowship continued on playing in his head: their footsteps or pleading cries of help to each other. These sounds where what pushed him forth and yet they were the ones that caused him to cringe every time they reached him. He dreaded the vision of seeing one of them fall like he had seen so many others do.  
  
Daggers and swords gleamed around him. It was time to use his own blades. He had, in the past, mastered these too. Millennia of experience were what brought him apart from all the rest. From the dwarf, who attacked his opponents with his deadly axe with seemingly no skill at all apart from the haunting hatred fevered by the sight of so many of his kin laid on the ground slain; Their rotting carcasses littering their paths as they moved forth in their desperate need to escape this haunting place. The two humans who seemed comfortable, if this word could have bee used to describe killings, with their swords. Slicing the very air they were thrust through to slash at their enemies until they collapsed in the dirt in lifeless, nauseating heaps.  
  
It was the four hobbits though that plagued his thoughts as he carried on defending himself. The four halflings that barely knew how to utilize a sword and that remained huddled together as they fought. The four child- like forms that replied to the countless of strikes aimed in their direction with innumerable ones of their own with about a third of the necessary force. They were the ones that he felt the most protective over. The wizard Gandalf obviously as preoccupied as he had been, rarely left their sides at all throughout the confrontation. His presence barely relieved the elf. Even though he knew of his immense power the mere sight of his physical conditions, with his long white beard and a body weakened by old age only seemed to un-nerve him further.  
  
Legolas was ripped away from the ghastly thoughts of death and decay amongst those he had vowed to protect by a tremendous roar echoing throughout the stone room.  
  
The massive form of a cave troll bashed his way through the rotting wood that in the past had probably been a potent door as its size and thickness hinted at. Yet, just one of its blows was enough to reduce it to mere splinters landing amongst corpses of orcs and dwarfs whose appearance had been rendered identical in their stillness. Legolas glanced at the gigantic figure headed his way waving his enormous club dangerously in the air. He barely had time to register the peril he was in before the heavy piece of wood was thrust down at the spot where the elf had stood just a couple of seconds before.  
  
Aragorn thrust his sword at the beast while the four hobbits retreated back against a wall, partly to escape the ord of orcs and partly intimidated by the humongous stature of the monster-like figure. Legolas tried to shoot an arrow at it but the point of it embedded in his shoulder was barely enough to make it flinch away. It continued in it's murderous parade hitting left and right with it's weapon hardly recognizing friends from foe and killing quite a few of it's supposed allies in the procedure.  
  
The free end of the chain that had been tied around its neck was whipped in the elf's direction splintering away pieces of the stone pillar beside him with its Herculean strength. He had just the time to duck down before the piece of metal was thrust down again in what would have, in the troll's intention, been the final stroke. The irritation in the beast at having missed his target was evident as blow after blow followed in the most erratic of way, hitting and hitting as though to cast the anger out through his mere strength. Finally the troll was made to pause for, in one of his most violent attacks, the chain he had been busy swinging perilously around had become entangled in one of the stone pillars on the elf's side. The latter had been quick in his action for, with his foot, he had managed to secure it tightly preventing the knot that held the rope in place from sliding down and thus becoming a weapon once again.  
  
As he fleetingly stepped on the chain using it to bridge his way over to the troll he cursed his elven ideas. Battling with a cave troll was in itself one thing but actually standing on his shoulders WHILE trying to fight it was indeed another more irrational and manic stupidity. Nonetheless he armed his bow and proceeded to shoot an arrow at its head. Another failure, the arrow simply seemed to scratch the thick skull and break off in small little fragments. The elf seeing nothing else he could do in his current position jumped off the back of the creature mentally sighing his fortune in relief.  
  
An orc attacked him from the side and his attention was removed from the menacing beast that had in the meantime managed to free the chain from the pillar and was busy searching for other victims. It didn't have to venture far though: four huddled figures fighting together to the best of their abilities obviously sparked his nasty curiosity. It wasn't until a couple of seconds later that the elf finally realized what had captured the interest of the beast but, at that point, it was all too late. He watched helplessly as the trident that the troll had picked up from the ground was thrust forcefully into the body of the ringbearer.  
  
At that moment it felt as though the whole battle had stopped, ceased momentarily in eternity to let the shock following the strangled, suffused cries that escaped the little body trapped against the wall register into the minds of all around him.  
  
Legolas found himself staring down at the small form gasping desperately for breath, his blue eyes cringing in pain and disbelief as it continued on his mad struggle to survive.  
  
Even for just a couple of moments more.  
  
The elf's vision was as clear as it could ever have been as it studied the hunched form of the hobbit finally sink to the ground in defeat. Yet, even though the form was immobile, dead to the eye, the prince couldn't stop staring, couldn't glance away. The whole room had spiraled to a halt so suddenly as to render him unfocused, numb almost.  
  
Yes, that was the word: Numb.  
  
As he glanced at the unconscious body on the ground he felt nothing. The grief had become too great for him to bear; his own brain had switched off all tremendous feelings in order to not suffer from them. It had happened before. Just once.  
  
That 'just once' was a thought that in itself terrified him because he now knew what was to follow: all the emotions that he wasn't letting himself feel would soon all rush back to him simultaneously. They would soak through his very skin if he wasn't careful, for everyone to see; for everyone to fear.  
  
He couldn't let that happen and yet, he couldn't control himself, couldn't remove his eyes from the little hobbit laid on the ground facedown and still.  
  
So still.  
  
A sharp, horrendous pain in his side finally shattered the silence in his mind. An arrow. He glanced down gasping and clutched at the wood sunk into his torso. His fingers tightened around it quickly and yanked it out cursing his failing elven senses.  
  
He should have seen it!  
  
Should have avoided it!  
  
And yet he hadn't. The weapon had pierced through his skin a hand above his hip and had cut through the flesh that rested there. He could feel the tissue ripping further as he moved his arm, stifling a cry as he touched his fingers to it.  
  
The wound, as agonizing as it was, didn't prevent him from battling; it couldn't prevent him from battling. He armed his bow once again and was quick to repay the inflictor of the gash that now burned his side. His own strike was much more deadly though for the orc was on the ground instantaneously. It seemed as though that was the last one to go for, as he glanced around all he saw was the fellowship looking in Frodos direction. Aragorn, rushing to his side, Gandalf, staring as though lost, and, lastly the three remaining hobbits with looks of utter pained disbelief painted all over their faces. As the heir of Isildur touched the ringbearer though, there was movement in the previously immobile figure. A ragged breath, a gasp of air and a small moan of discomfort.  
  
"He's alive" Samwise Gamgee sighed in relief as he looked down upon his master with outmost adoration.  
  
Legolas kept himself away from the commotion. He turned his back away from the rest of the fellowship and glanced down at his side dreading what he would see once the material of his shirt had been removed. As his hand traveled down and grazed the rim of the tear he had to hide a grimace of pain, it was worse than what he had thought. He parted the folds of his clothing and bit back a gasp as he caught the first sight of the wound. The arrow had obviously pierced in deep and, in his haste to remove it, he must have twisted it for there was another tear in his skin: one that enlarged the hole produced by the weapon itself.  
  
He knew what he had to do.  
  
As the rest of his companions fawned around the little hobbit he hid away behind a crevice, where darkness would for once, against his elf nature, be his friend. He didn't have much time; None at all perhaps if the others decided to leave then. He dug a spare shirt out of his pack and proceeded on slicing it with his dagger in order to result in three long and strong bandages. He hastily tied them around his midriff trying desperately to stop the blood flow. The scarlet liquid was quick to penetrate the first layer of the dressing, and slightly slower for the second but the elf reckoned that the third would be able to conceal it for the time being. Not for long though.  
  
He could feel the injured meat rasp against the material that attempted to sooth its' pain. Cease its movement, cease its pressure, cease its anguish.  
  
It hurt. It cut. It ripped. It BLED.  
  
The very movement of his left arm was enough to send him gasping for air as it pulled on the sliced skin . He felt his very raw flesh pull apart and again friction together has he testingly tried to lift his bow from the ground.  
  
He was an elf true. An immortal being and yet, so close to slipping from life he had been.  
  
He could still be.  
  
"Legolas, come, we must move out." Aragorn voice reached him from the remains of a doorway the fellowship had already gone through. He nodded in recognition swinging his weapon on his back ignoring the deep throb that erupted from his side at his action. Ignoring the deep ache that seemed to spread throughout his abdomen as he started walking towards the ranger. Ignoring his conscience as it bit at him to mention something, anything at all about his condition. The others deserved to know. He could slow them down. Could cost them their lives. Could cost them Middle Earth.  
  
A shot of resolution cursed through his very being at that same moment.  
  
He would NOT let this slow them down.  
  
  
  
DUH DUH DUH DUUUUUH. Is Legolas going to spill the beans or not? I actually have two versions written if you are interested let me know which one you would rather have me put up.  
  
I know I know I'm not particularly good at action sequences but the next part is going to be in Legolas' point of view and yes, there is angst. I'm sorry I let any of you people out there down I know it's not my best work but hell!! It demanded to be written. SHOULD I carry on?  
  
LUV YA READERS!!! 


	2. Numb

Hey people! A day late I know but nonetheless I am back!!  
  
Ok this chapter is a bit slow and not much happens, it is rather like the boring wait before the tornado hits ( yeah, as though it's going to be THAT exciting. My writing is not made for that) so please bear with me. Things will eventually happen and old wounds will be re-opened (excuse the pun).  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own them and don't claim to. If I wanted them, I'd have them. (Trust me I have my ways. ()  
  
  
  
Chapter2  
  
The shadows of thousands of orcs reflecting in the stone doorway grew larger and larger as their possessors dangerously made their way closer. Legolas could hardly see them though; could hardly hear their echoing violent footsteps. Could hardly make out their horrific cries in their hungry search for murder.  
  
It was as though his senses, usually frighteningly acute, had begun to mould one into the other giving birth to a nauseatingly loud mix of noise and colour. He had a vague knowledge of what was happening around him: He could see the fellowship desperately trying to outrun an enemy the elf knew they could never escape.  
  
Not with the elderly wizard whose fragile body was trying his best to keep up with the rest of the group; not with the four halflings whose short legs equaled their most powerful sprint to a mere human jog; and, not in HIS own condition.  
  
He could feel the material of his hastily applied bandage scrape against his raw skin. Could feel the vibration of each usually light footstep press heavily into the gash. Could feel the blood flow at a faster, more alarming rate as the two sides of the wound frictioned against each other. And yet... he felt none of this.  
  
He felt nothing.  
  
The only thing he was aware of was the sound of his own voice resounding deep and silent within his own mind. A voice that urged him to search beyond the darkness of the shadows. A voice that yelled at him to listen to the rustles surrounding him.  
  
A voice that he couldn't help but ignore.  
  
His legs mechanically pushed him forth in a learnt motion that he wasn't even aware of anymore. His eyes, focused in one direction, sent his brain only the essential facts necessary to keep him going at the acquired pace. He was suddenly conscious of the fact that they had pulled to a stop. He could feel his own muscles adhere together to halt his own legs and his arm reach back to grasp an arrow.  
  
With his usual grace he armed his bow trying to ignore the whispering, dull ache of his chest as he tried to hold up the weapon. As he released his grasp he noted that, even when he fired subconsciously, his aim was still as deadly as ever. He repeated the motion again but, this time, he listened in fascination as he once again heard his own voice within his mind. Yet, it wasn't talking about the battle. It didn't NEED to advise him about the battle.  
  
His body had fought so many times that it had by now, undertaken the basic pattern necessary for him to survive:  
  
Aim. Shoot. Kill.  
  
No, he knew how to do this well enough.  
  
Instead, it was a warning that was replaying in his brain. A warning against what he knew would soon happen.  
  
This piercing pain would soon cease. This melancholic state that tormented him would soon be swept away into what he knew could be a catastrophic follow up of emotions resurfaced from the passed millennia. It wouldn't take long now, the time would soon arise and until then, he would just have to live with the single sparks of remaining emotions his subconscious still privileged him with. In comparison with what was to come he knew that the anguish he was undertaking now would seem like a comforting peace before the storm.  
  
A sudden noise turned him to look down a long, dark corridor built to an astounding height: A bright reflection of fiery light was transpiring through with a menacing, eerie gleam and a loud, guttural growl was soon to follow from the same source. It was then that he realized that the many orcs that had previously been on their pursuits had managed to surround them.  
  
Within the circle, his companions stood as though petrified, their features betraying their growing panic: Gandalfs' knowing, despairing look almost hopeless in his gazing face; Boromir, Gimli, Pippin, Merry and Sam, astounded and terrified as they focused into the distance desperately clutching their weapons. And finally Frodos fear-filled blue eyes frantically staring ahead never shifting from the creature headed their way.  
  
It didn't last long though. Gandalf spoke and as soon as the words unheard by the elf, left is lips they were running in the opposite direction, Legolas finding himself following obediently, repetitively casting arrows at figures he couldn't properly make out in the dark.  
  
Later, he would think back to the next moments and realize that he didn't have much memory of them. Arrows cast his way. Orcs shot down. A bridge. Jumping. The Balrog. And finally the only thing that he knew he would never be able to forget for as long as he lived.  
  
For eternity.  
  
Gandalf turning before the beast, his staff clutched before him, proclaiming with what energy he still possessed:  
  
"You shall not Pass!"  
  
Dread fulfilled the elf as he watched the tremendous demon erupt forth towards the gray wizard intimidatingly. There was a startling clarity to his vision that forced him to confront a scene that he would rather have avoided. His hearing became less obfuscated as he heard the cracking of the flaming whip that the beast was fiercely wielding. It was an horrific spectacle and, still, all he could truly register was utter and complete fear.  
  
It was seldom that this emotion could take over him but, when it did in all its terrifying power he was completely enslaved to it. Like every other emotion captured by his usual elven senses it was amplified to the full of its potential and almost impossible to bear. He wasn't able to look away as Gandalfs body was pulled down into the abyss, wasn't able to ignore the sharp waking ache in his side as he was jerked momentarily back to reality.  
  
Then it all went crashing down again into a silent, numb darkness.  
  
Running.  
  
His legs once again were carrying him forth. He didn't have a sense of direction anymore, could just slightly make out the rest of the fellowship all rushing in the same direction to escape the countless of remaining orcs. Arrows, more arrows fleeting past him, leaving with him only soft, assassin whispers to soon be forgotten.  
  
A light.  
  
In the distance, the only thing that reached him in the dark cage that had imprisoned his mind. He could feel a slight piece of his being reacting to the warmth he could feel minimized as his eyes recognized the pale kissing of the sun. He had to reach it... Had to escape this gnawing darkness that had him transfixed, had to forget the engulfing terror that had grown within him.  
  
He had to forget.  
  
And yet, even when he could see the pale sunlight bathing his desperate hands, he failed to feel its effect within him. His body, usually charged by the brightness, seemed to have suddenly become immune to its charm. He no longer felt the joy penetrating his skin to reach the deeper, emotional wounds that only it's heat could cure. He had become impermeable to it's magic. The black pain that would have had him gasping for breath had he been alone, had affected him more than it ever had before.  
  
What had happened in the Mines of Moria had inflicted a deeper wound on him than he had previously been conscious of. The anguish, fear and incomparable sadness had finally hit him as they never should have an elf.  
  
They were the perfect beings, the chosen, blessed ones.  
  
Not made for such raw human emotions.  
  
His body wasn't accepting them; he couldn't cope with the mortal torture that was being pushed upon it. He had previously always managed to dominate these unnatural emotions. They had ever only affected him one other time... A long time ago... A time that he always avoided thinking about but, nonetheless, a time that always managed to catch up with him. Just as he knew it was about to do now. An event that he didn't want to recreate, actions that he didn't want to repeat, feelings that he never wanted to recall...  
  
He had no thoughts left over now, no conscious sight, nor did he have a hearing capable of listening.  
  
All he had was emotions.  
  
  
  
I know I know, I kinda stretched a bit away from the physical wound but that side of the story will be discussed in the next chapter. Still have to decide what part of the story to put up (if you have no idea what I am talking about read the previous chapter).  
  
Any suggestions would be appreciated and feasted upon.  
  
BTW still desperately seeking a BETA. 


	3. Dread

Hey everyone sorry I took so long for this part. I don't mean to make up excuses only this delay was really not my fault!! My laptop decided to take a vacation from me and my next two chapters were saved in its blessed hard drive!! Well, here it is, seriously I think this one is also a tad boring but I promise things will happen in the next part (please let me know if it's excessively boring and repetitive). I would love to hear what you think about my writing and whether you think I should carry on posting. REALLY reviews are always appreciated even the negative ones IF they are constructive. Hoping to read from you.  
  
Chapter 3  
  
Why could he not feel the tranquil peace that only the sun could normally procure him. The shadows that had haunted his heart from within the depth of the Mines of Moria had yet to abandon him, yet to succumb to their natural enemy:  
  
Sunlight.  
  
This had never happened before, never for so long a period of time... Never had the blackness been so endless. Never had it been so blinding.  
  
Almost a day had passed since Gandalfs fall and yet, his condition had remained the same. The same deaf voices. The same colourless images. The same empty thoughts. He no longer could register those. He could sense when being spoken to and also could formulate senseful sentences that could hint nothing of his present absence. But that was it.  
  
Absence of thoughts. Absence of emotions. Absence of spirit.  
  
The only thing he could really feel tying him down to Middle Earth was the sharp pain that cursed through his veins provening from the deep wound in his side. The effect that the anguish was having on him seemed to be growing more and more with each passing minute.  
  
It wasn't healing.  
  
The skin was still ruptured; the blood still flowed freely when the bandage was removed.  
  
It wasn't normal.  
  
They were walking again, trying, to Aragorn command, to speed up their pace in order to escape the orcs that were doubtlessly on their tails.  
  
It was a nightmare. So as not to rouse any suspicions in the others he forced himself to scout ahead as he usually would have done. But with each light elven footstep he could feel the skin in his side tear mercilessly as the pressure built in his torso. He wouldn't have been able to last for much longer.  
  
Yet he had to.  
  
He had promised to see their task completed and that is what he was going to accomplish. He couldn't pull back now. He couldn't betray their trust, couldn't let down another group.  
  
Not again.  
  
Even In this direction. Even if it leaded him THERE.  
  
Again.  
  
He recognized the trees they were walking past; he had seen them many times before. Yet, as much as his elven being loved nature, he hated them. He hated the sight of the familiar leaves, of the known patterns on the bark, of the learnt protruding of the long roots.  
  
He hated them.  
  
He felt his blood freeze in his veins with every step taken into that direction, his mind numbing further, the darkness growing... He could feel it so tangibly it scared him. He knew what rested in the direction they were headed towards.  
  
Lothlórien.  
  
The very name sent uncontrollable, cutting shivers cursing up his spine; shivers that remained; shivers that burned; shivers that forced him to remember...  
  
He didn't know for how long they had been walking that day, the sun still shone down brightly hinting that the afternoon might have just begun and yet, his bones and muscles told him otherwise. He was tired, for the first time in years he was completely and utterly exhausted. Maybe it had been the blood-loss, maybe the endless march but, more commonly, it had been the dark abyss that seemed to be engulfing his full spirit. He didn't know for how long he could master this facade before he completely gave in to the torture... Days? Months? At that moment he doubted he could last the night.  
  
He glanced around at his companions. They were tired, doubtlessly so, but still they endured. And in this silent assembly, one stood out amongst the many: It was the ring bearer that seemed to be the one suffering from the tremendous, aching torture the most out of the whole group of them. His head remained bowed as he took step after step on the green vibrant grass that reached up to about his waist and that doubtlessly was proving much harder to wade through than it had been for the elf. In his face, dark shadows seemed to be taking over, but sadly, they didn't rest solely there.  
  
His eyes... They were the ones that really reflected his physical and mental conditions.  
  
They were dark, dormant it seemed, and yet they were battling with a deep force that was trying to overtake their purity  
  
A dark, impenetrable blue that faded to green around the edges. Eyes that had witnessed many nightmares and were bound to see many more. Eyes that were not prepared for the horrors their owner knew they were destined to encounter. Eyes that were soon to loose the innocence that they had been blessed with since his fading youth. Eyes that saw and wished they hadn't and eyes that cried and begged for it to stop.  
  
Legolas knew what he was seeking refuge in at that very moment... He could see it in the little, slight spark of hope that illuminated his candid face and by the small shadow of a smile trying to tug at the corner of his mouth.  
  
The Shire.  
  
His home.  
  
Where every hobbit-hole perspired with a sense of warmth and familiarity. Where he could comfortably be seated by the fire, a good book to hand, while fantasizing about adventures far away; able to ignore the physical and emotional trauma that came with them. It was amazing how even such a small memory could be vivid enough to give him the energy to carry forth on his journey the way he was now.  
  
Legolas couldn't help but envy him. He once too held such a place. He knew what it felt like to be flooded with a sense of homecoming with just a mere glance in his mind; Remembered the feeling of having close friends and relatives blessing his thoughts with their very presence; knew of the comfort the mere knowledge of this place still standing brought to him.  
  
And now, heading closer and closer to Lothlórien only seemed to be chasing away every happy memory he could conjure up. Seemed to be darkening the faces of his kin into forms he could no longer recognize and that only hurt him to think back on.  
  
It only tortured him.  
  
Then it was sudden: A movement.  
  
It was only just a small rustle of leaves but the part of his brain still functioning managed to recognize it: Dissect it apart from the other, more natural ones they had grown used to. His bow was armed before he even had the chance to think about what his arm and hand were doing. He heard the mumblings of the dwarf ahead of him stop as an Elven arrow was pointed his way almost in the blink of an eye. The hobbits, astounded, stared straight at the weapons pointed in their faces in shock and confusion. The only one that seemed the slightest disturbed in the whole ambush appeared to be Aragorn who held his arms up in defeat and with a peaceful smile turned to the obvious leader of his attackers to try a negotiation.  
  
Legolas' breath caught up in his throat as he recognized whom exactly the mortal was addressing.  
  
Haldir.  
  
With hair similar to his own but with blazing eyes that stared down at the group with a malignant look of Elven superiority. They rested on him for a second before hardening in acknowledgement. Acknowledgement of his name but with a flaming hatred that he felt reflected within his own being in the form of stagnant fear.  
  
He remembered. Of course he remembered. How could he have forgotten?  
  
His doubts upon wanting to reach this forest had been founded on pure and savage knowledge of this moment. Here it was in its full, immense, deafening power. He would find no friends here. He knew that for a fact now upon feeling the last shimmer of hope congeal within himself and die slowly.  
  
Numb.  
  
Again...  
  
The small amount of feeling that he had recuperated since the mines of Moria had disappeared with the last amber of that fading hope. The other elf stared down at him patronizingly as he continued discussing with their leader. A conversation that he couldn't help but ignore. A conversation that he couldn't help but hide away form. He wanted to be led the opposite way, wanted for Haldir to refuse them access to the Lady of the forest, wanted to turn back and find another route.  
  
His prayers were in vain though.  
  
The group started moving as one following the Elven blonde figures leading the way. Not a word of greeting from any of them, not even a glance recognizing his presence, not even a nod to honor his position as prince of Mirkwood.  
  
There was complete silence, shattered only by the dry leaves crumbling beneath the feet of the dwarf who carried on walking with his usual potent, graceless stride. A complete opposite to all the others: Elves, Humans and Hobbits alike.  
  
They ventured forth for a while and, finally, he saw it. Bathed in moonlight and reflecting a pale, blue halo amongst the trees where it was built lay Lothlórien radiant in its magical, surreal beauty. He thought he felt his heart slow its pace and the blood that it had been pumping through his veins grow glacially cold. Glacially foreboding.  
  
He saw many other elves sitting about, parting to make way for the prestigious group that had entered these premises. A couple of glances cast his way. Whispers covered by soft, artful hands while eyes rested on him in surprise.  
  
Studying. Remembering. Judging.  
  
No one had forgotten. No one had forgiven.  
  
The wound in his side began pounding, throbbing, harder and harder as they neared the large staircase where Galadriel and Celeborn were slowly descending. A tremor again took over him as the gentle Lady of the Woods drew nearer. She was the one he feared the most, and yet she walked forth emanating the same pale, reassuring light that he remembered from all those years ago. It had grown stronger since their last encounter, just as his had slowly faded.  
  
Hers was a Light that he envied. A Light that he had lost. A Light that he could never regain again.  
  
A light that he needed.  
  
He heard the Lady address the group, he could see her delicate lips parting to release the melodious voice that could, and did, enchant anyone. Watched as the radiant blue eyes moved slowly, hypnotizing, over each one of them. He dreaded when they would fall on him, dreaded when she would speak her mind into his own as she was known to do, as he had heard her before. Next to himself Legolas felt Boromir stiffen slightly, his muscular corporature trembling slightly as his breath sharply hitched in his throat.  
  
She had spoken to him.  
  
She had spoken and he hadn't liked what had been revealed to him.  
  
Soon it would be his own turn; he could see her pupils slowly, torturously slowly, shifting slightly to focus on his own sapphire eyes in recognition.  
  
//Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, long it has been since you looked upon Lothlórien, though, very few foresaw your arrival...//  
  
Till next time kind reader.. Please let me know. 


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